Making Monsters
by icequeenkitty
Summary: ...Post Doubts and Dopplegangers... J Gander does some research. Set of short back stories for two villains. See better description inside. AU
1. Introduction

Okay, this is a little collection of two back stories that tie into my main Darker DWD storyline. I have them posted in my literary account on Deviantart, so if you have seen these already please pardon my redundancy. As opposed to just throwing the stories up here, I wanted to tie this in a bit more to the stories. So, this is set shortly ( two or three days) after Doubts and Dopplegangers (no spoilers for things that have happened or will happen don't worry.) Uhh the format will be a little weird. This little blurb is just an introduction, the next chapter will be told in a different story format… the next in a different style as well. Yeah, they'll be no set tone… but I wanted to share these here. Enough babble out of me, here we go!

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The offices at the S.H.U.S.H. building were quiet as Director J. Gander Hooter sat back down at his desk. It was late, and in recent days unnervingly tranquil. There had been no contact or movement from either F.O.W.L. or Darkwing, it didn't sit right in his mind. This felt like the calm before a very violent, vicious storm. He knew better than to think it was over, both parties were biding their time, licking their wounds and grasping for the closest opportunity to strike. S.H.U.S.H. fit in there too. Somewhere along the sidelines, even though he felt just as caught up in this mess as the rest of the combatants. His hands rested on the file he had just retrieved from the archives. It seemed unimportant now, but there was a nagging in him that knowing more about this person would only benefit him. Hooter ran his hand over the folder with the name "Michael Bell" printed on it. It sounded like such a normal name. An innocent name, but knowing what Mr. Bell had grown to do, the name lost all it's serenity. He turned on his desk lamp, put on his glasses, and opened the folder.

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Darkwing Duck and all related characters are © Disney

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	2. Madman

It happened again today. The chain link fence was easy to climb and he had proven he was all too capable of doing so. But it wasn't the fact that he climbed the fence that got him into trouble, it's what he did afterward. Elsa was an old dog. One that had been a guard dog in her hay day but recently she just sat around. The creature had more than her share of burden in her youth, so her masters sought to make her comfortable in her elderly years. Maybe because like so many people, they felt compassion to their un-evolved cousins they wanted her to be at peace. No one was quite sure what had triggered the evolution of the animals to the bipedal intelligent beings they were today, but it seemed almost unimportant in today's light. So Elsa was a dog. A four legged, slobbering, stupid dog that sought out the blue water of the house's toilet as her main source of sustenance. It might have been because she was so dopey that he loved to tease her, but he was always a strange child.

The old duck woman looked up from her diary and rested her failing eyes on the last family portrait her son had sent her before he was taken. The smiles were forced and the expressions a bit surprised but it was a picture of life, not all images are perfect. She sighed and twirled her expensive pen in her hand. She liked to write about the days that passed in her diary, her mind was rusty and she seemed to forget things quickly. But, today she seemed to be writing as if strapped down by duty about a subject she wished she could ignore. She started writing again, who was she to edit life?

Her grandson, Michael, was the only relative left in her life after her son and daughter in law were killed. He had been living with her for a few years now and she was reminded everyday how trying it was to raise a child. Only now she had the handicap of age to her abilities. He was hyperactive boy, jumping around and noisy. He was like a Jack in the Box, he would hide somewhere and jump out to scare her at least four times a day. Her weak heart could just barely handle it. As a result she started calling him Jack, the nickname stuck. He was uncontrollable and she often lost her temper with him, but never to the point of violence. So little Jack had a bad habit of looking for new places to play, and the child had an interesting definition of the word to boot. He was cruel. He would rip the wings off dragonflies and then stick them on his toys to see if they could fly, blissfully unaware of the creature's pain. He did a lot of things like that. He didn't fit in with other children because of his odd play tactics and she'd had to gather him up more than once after he had tried to "play" with his class mates. Now, she had one more disaster to add to his growing supply. He liked to tease Elsa. She didn't like him because of it, and had nearly torn his arm off this past summer. Jack hadn't been afraid, in fact when he saw how frightened she was at his bloody limb he laughed at her.

"Grandma?"

She looked up from her page and saw him standing in the door way, a small frown on his face. She straightened up in her bed, closing the book in her lap, her pen holding her place.

"Yes Jack?"

"Were you writing about me?" He asked sadly.

"Yes I was. I still can't believe you killed that poor dog."

"I was only playing with her!" He started defensively.

"With a baseball bat."

"Grammy… I don't like that you write about me and don't let me read it."

"Don't you 'Grammy' me Michael Bell, I am very disappointed in you. I sent you to bed hours ago and I do think I told you to stay in your room?"

"B..but…"

"No buts. March young man."

"Hey let me…"

" 'Hey' is for horses. I am not going to forgive you so easily. I wonder what's going on in that head of yours sometimes."

"I can tell you." He offered meekly.

"I said I wondered, I do not want to know what you were thinking when you beat that dog to death." She sniffed and took her small reading glasses off her bill.

"T… there's a monster in my closet."

She sighed.

"Well why don't you go 'play' with it then? You seem to handle yourself pretty well when playtime comes around."

"Can you please come and look for me?" He stood with his hands behind his back timidly.

"No. Go to bed. I'll talk to Elsa's owners tomorrow morning and see that you are punished as they see fit." She said flatly and opened her book again.

"I'll miss you when you go away Grammy."

She froze and raised her eyes slowly to him. There were times when this eight year old boy scared her more than any other being in mythology or reality combined. His crooked bucked teeth were always visible due to his misaligned bite and his dark eyes always looked glazed over.

"Don't talk like that Michael. Now go to sleep."

"Grammy, if I go to sleep the monster might wander around the house."

"I'll take my chances."

"He might get in your closet."

"I don't think so." She said as she made herself look busy.

"He might find daddy's gun."

"Michael!" She snapped angrily and fixed him with a hard look. "That's enough."

"Why do you have dad's gun Grammy?"

"Because he isn't around to use it anymore." She said firmly, her son was a police man. His gun and badge were stored in a locked box in her closet but she never remembered telling Jack that.

"Oh. Well… what if a bad guy got in when you were reading your romance novel and took it out?"

"It's locked." She said growing steadily angrier.

"The key is missing."

She blinked at him. Hesitantly she turned to her bedside table and noticed the jewelry box she kept the small key in was open and empty. Her heart in her throat, she returned her gaze to her grandson.

"Told you."

"Where did you hide it Jack?"

"In the closet." He smiled lightly. The dim light of her bedside lamp painted him in an eerie way. She pushed the blankets off her.

"This isn't funny."

"Not yet. Wait until the punch line." He grinned.

"Remember what you did to Elsa? Was that funny?" She breathed.

He seemed to think about this for a good while.

"Not really, maybe if I put a dress on her before I left it would be more funny. Anyway she laughed at me when she bit my arm… it was my turn."

"She's a dog. She can't laugh."

"Her loss." He shrugged.

"Michael… do you have the gun?"

"Pick a hand." His smile widened.

"Give it to me." She demanded her hands shaking.

"Pick. A. Hand." He said darkly.

"I will not."

"You're no fun." He frowned and held his hands out in front of him they were empty. She tried to hide her relief.

"That does it. Bed. Now! And don't leave that room until I come and get you!" She shouted. He stuck his tongue out and left her doorway.

She waited for her heart to reclaim it's steady pace and for the sound of his door closing before she got out of bed. Her closet was closed and offered no signs of forced entry. There was an odd smell coming from the other side of the door though, she worked up her nerve and opened it. The scream spilled out of her and she managed to stagger backwards a few steps, her heart failing before she collapsed. Jack ran back to his grandmother's room a grin on his face. His joke had gone just as planned. He walked up to the closet, and crossed his arms admiring his handy work. Elsa did look like a monster when he managed to get her in the closet, but now that her blood was all over the inside of the closet she looked really great. Also putting Grammy's dress on it was a nice touch too. The plastic gun he had lashed to her paw had the little "bang" flag hanging out of it. He giggled to himself. He turned around and sat beside the wide eyed body of his grandmother.

"Gotcha." He whispered.


	3. New File

The door of Hooter's office opened and he jumped a bit startled. He cleared his throat timidly, immediately feeling foolish. The young Agent nervously approached his desk. Before he addressed her he closed the folder and wrote one word on it.

" 'Q…Quackerjack' sir?" The woman asked, reading the note aloud as he wrote.

"Yes Agent Porter, I was just updating some old files. What may I do for you?" He tucked the file in his a drawer. She put her briefcase on his desk and produced a similar looking folder to the one he had just deposited.

"I have the records of the felon you requested sir." She said formally and handed it to him.

"Excellent, his trial has ended, correct?" He asked mildly interested as he took the file from her.

"Yes sir. They uh… well… capital punishment." She fumbled.

"So he's off to execution, good. He's been a danger to us all for long enough I think."

"Director Hooter, permission to speak freely?"

"Always, Agent."

"Well, I was at the hearing this afternoon, since I was assigned to check up on the proceedings. And well… I don't know… it just didn't feel right. He wasn't scared. He wasn't even sorry. I mean, I know he's certifiably insane, but still."

"I find it's best not to try and understand such things Porter. If I try, I get terrible migraines." He smiled lightly.

"He must have been a scary person his whole life…"

"Ah, well… I think this one is proof that some monsters are made, while others are born… like Quackerjack."

"I… I see sir." She closed her briefcase. "Well, good night sir. I hope you find what your looking for."

"Me too." He muttered under his breath as she left.

The green folder was clean and new, it was labeled exactly as Mr. Bell's had been, as was their procedure. Only this file read: Elmo Sputterspark.


	4. Broken Brilliance

The child had become accustomed to his mother's strange taste. She would make all sorts of strange food that smelled as equally questionable as the material they were made of. It wasn't wise to push this though; it was all she could afford. He understood that. He understood a lot of things. Some people had called him a genius. A prodigy. He also knew what those were, he didn't feel the part. His mother told him everyday how precious he was, how she was so proud of him. He knew she was, because as it's been said he knew and understood a lot of things. He also knew why he had to be home schooled, and why he didn't get to see his mother for extended periods of time. He had gone to public school only to be beaten up everyday, and his courses were less than educational. As for his mother, she had two jobs, both with long hours and less than stellar pay. Another thing he knew was that they were poor. Well, not poor in the sleeping on the streets fashion, but scraping by with a few dimes to spare one. Her quirky and peculiar behavior made it hard for her to keep a job for too long. She usually worked as a waitress or a convenience store clerk. She loved people. She would come home and tell him all about what so and so did today. That Mr. What's his name had left her a big tip that she put toward his Christmas present. He lived to hear what she'd done, who she'd seen. He didn't get out; she didn't want him to leave the apartment. Again, he knew why. They lived in a horrible part of the city. It was likely they were the only honest people in ten blocks. So he wanted to hear about the world outside these four walls, and beyond the lives of characters on television. 

Her strange taste didn't only apply to food and work. It seemed she also had an interesting eye for men. If it was something he wished he could change about her it was her unrelenting need to be with someone. She liked to have someone with her, to have a man to want her around. It had been a real source of bitterness for him for a long while. He wanted to be his mother's keeper. Wanted to make sure she was safe and wanted her attention all to himself. But, he was smart. He knew that she loved him, and that the attention she sought he wouldn't be able to give. So he sat back and watched her bring home boyfriends. Some of them he knew from her tales of her days. The nice ones were well, nice. He often found himself getting attached to them, but it seemed his mother was a bit too quirky for her own good. She would either call it off suddenly or scare them away. He hated to see her cry, but he figured he'd have to get used to the sight. The real point here is, the nice ones left. Always, for one reason or another they didn't stick around. The mean ones on the other hand, they seemed to hang in the air like bacteria. He wasn't sure why, but the mean ones always made her happier. He'd heard of women on T.V. falling for the "bad boy" but those guys either weren't as bad as they seemed or the girls wised up before the end. He was still waiting for either of those scenarios.

The one boyfriend that lingered the longest was Bradley. Bradley was in a business he never really specified. When asked what he did he'd respond, "oh little a' dis a little a' dat", with a smirk. He was a large bull dog that always seemed to be grinning about something. What that something was he never really wanted to know. Bradley teased his mother and was very forward with his, 'interest' in her. He wished harder than ever that his mother would call off this relationship, but it didn't seem to be in the cards. She liked him, an awful lot more than he deserved. But Bradley didn't like him at all. He hid this fact very well from his mother, but when the two of them were left alone for even a minute he found himself on the receiving end of an underhanded comment or worse. He might have been smart, but he still wanted his mother to be happy so he kept quiet. The work that Bradley seemed to do, apparently dried up when he found out his mother would provide for him with out question. It seemed like the darkest day in his young life when the bulldog moved into their cramped slummy apartment. His mother had been so happy.

"Oh Elmo, you'll see! It will be wonderful! Brad can take care of you when I'm at work!" She had told him with a kind smile.

Take care of him. Had she known exactly how he'd be cared for he suspected his wish would come true. Bradley hadn't even spent an hour alone with him on their first day together when he started up. Bradley's work had apparently taught him how to hurt a person with out leaving any bruises. Because no matter how hard he hit him, no matter how much it hurt, he had no proof to show his mother. No evidence at all that he'd been touched at all. That, to Elmo, was more painful than anything else. But even Bradley had his limits, it seemed. He tired of grounding his girlfriend's kid into a fine powder after the first week. After that, he was just didn't want to be bothered with him. Elmo would have gladly stayed away, would have even braved the world outside to get away from him. But Bradley knew that the easy life would end as soon as his trusting sweet heart found out that her precious little son was out on the streets of St. Canard on his own all day. No, he wasn't going to endanger a good thing. What he did instead was threaten the boy to the brink of tears, to not make a peep and then locked him in the small broom closet in the hall. 

Elmo sat in that closet. He sat in it day after day. Hour after hour. The only thing in the small place was the light bulb hanging from the ceiling. He would close his eyes and push away the musty smell. He would imagine he was anywhere else. He was a stowaway on a pirate ship, like Jim Hawkins. He was a marine in a ditch, a secret agent behind enemy lines, ready to become a hero. It helped for a while, but whenever he opened his eyes he was just Elmo Sputterspark locked in a closet. Bradley would always give him a good slap when he'd let him out before his mother got home. Told him he was 'okay' today, and told him to be even quieter next time. Next time. There was always a next time. And there was always a problem. He was told he breathed too loud, he got up too fast when it came time to leave, that he was wearing out the floor from sitting on the same side of the closet all day. There was no end insight. Despite it being a prison cell, he felt safe there. Bradley didn't hit him when he was in the closet. Only after he was removed from the structure was he beaten. In the small area, all he had to be with was the light bulb. And the light bulb certainly wasn't going to hurt him. Light bulbs didn't hurt anyone. When his mind was drained of cheeriness and games of his grandeur. He often found himself staring at the glowing orb. Wondering what it would be like to be able to shine light in dark places. To know that you'd never done anything to hurt anyone ever, that no one hated you for no reason. So many things came to him as he stared at the light, his vision going fuzzy and spotty from the act. He hadn't been allowed to eat in the closet since he left crumbs, so he found that when he was really hungry his mind started to slip. He imagined what he'd be able to say if he could speak with the pure essence of the little bulb. Also imagined what it would say to him.

After a while, he found that he didn't need to think up answers anymore. The light would tell him. It was surprising at first. He had stuck his thinning fingers in his ears to try to block it out. It was one thing to imagine conversations with inanimate objects, he wasn't about to start believing he was having them. He wasn't crazy. He wasn't. He was smart. A genius. A prodigy. He opened his eyes sadly. Who was he kidding? He was a little boy locked in a closet. He wasn't any of those things. But the tinny voice of the bulb corrected him. In fact, the light seemed to want him to be happy. Wanted him to know that he was as precious and special as his mother used to tell him he was. What did he expect from an object he was certain was so good? He tried to ignore it for a few hours, but couldn't help but be interested in the chipper voice. It was very knowledgeable. He found himself whispering to it before too long. It seemed that the bulb was more than happy to be his friend, to talk to him about anything. Elmo was more interested in finding out what it was like to be an object such as his friend. The kind soul was keen to tell him. They were prisoners together. Elmo and the light bulb. He had to sit here until his mother came home and then act like he was fine; the bulb just had to stay in its socket and burn until it died. Until it died. Elmo shuddered at the thought. It was thankless work, selfish of them to turn on the poor creature; it was only going to die because of it. He didn't want his friend to die.

The light bulb, being an understanding creature didn't mind. In fact, since Elmo had started talking to it, the bulb told him how happy he'd become. He didn't mind that he'd be burnt out, as long as he could talk to Elmo each day. It was the sweetest gesture anyone had ever extended to him, and he shed tears that didn't go unheard. It wasn't too long before the door was swung open and the door frame was full of bull dog.

"Stop dat cryin'! Or ah'll give yuh sumthin' ta cry about!" He barked. Elmo wiped his eyes. "Whut you doin' in here anyway?" Bradley eyed him evilly.

"Nothing!" Elmo answered a little too quickly.

"Nuffin?" Bradley sneered. "Wull why don't cha do nuffin' in da dark for a change?" 

Before he could blink Bradley smacked the dangling light with his massive hand. Time slowed to a crawl as he watched the little bulb smash against the wall. It's light extinguished, its body shattering and falling to rest on the floor. It was at that moment, that he didn't care if he was crazy anymore or not. The seven year old rat, thin from malnourishment snarled like a lion and attacked the murderer. He didn't know where his strength came from; it certainly wasn't something he had before. It was as if he was the one being energized by the harvested electricity that pumped through the wires in the walls. Bradley stumbled away from him, stunned and angry. But Elmo wasn't Elmo anymore. He had changed. He wasn't Jim Hawkins, or a spy. What he was there was no definition for. He was aware. He felt the currents around him, knew that his friend was killed, knew that the only comforting voice he had lately was never going to be heard again. It killed him, but snapped something in his head. He wasn't a person anymore. He was a light bulb. But a light bulb that wasn't going to let anyone kill him. Wasn't going to let someone burn him out. He wasn't going to be a victim anymore. 

When Edna Sputterspark came home from work that day, she smelt the unmistakable stench of burning hair. With her heart in her throat she dropped her groceries and ran into her home. A few odd things she noticed off the bat, but they were stripped from her mind when she saw Bradley collapsed on the kitchen floor. She ran over to him, he was dead. He was the source of the stench, and she couldn't stop her tears. Elmo. She thought. But before she could scream his name she saw him. He was standing in front of the hall closet with broken glass in his hand, she rushed over to him.

"Elmo! Honey are you hurt what happened to Brad?" She sobbed but received a shock when she touched him, literally. His blue eyes turned to her slowly, they were hollow. 

"He burned out." Elmo said darkly. Edna tried to understand. He could see her struggling. "I killed him."

She stared at him, her breath catching in her throat.

"Why? How?"

He gave her a dreamy smile and looked down at the shattered light bulb in his hand.

"My friend told me to. I understand everything now. He wanted to burn me out, so I killed him. I fried him like chicken."

Edna couldn't understand the words he was saying, or her mind wouldn't let her. She heard the police arrive at the open front door. Apparently the neighbors had heard screaming. Her son confessed with that smile on his face, and he was torn from her arms. It was the last time she would see him with out a thick sheet of glass separating them.


	5. When it rains

He closed the file. The pages that followed depicted the young man's ability to not only endanger his own safety but the people around him. Relocation came frequently for this one, he was quite the asylum hopper. That is, of course, until Stones Sanitarium met it's end in the riotous flames. He shook his head and frowned. That place, it was crucial, it drew Sputterspark and Bell together… and someone else. He glanced at a key on his desk. After a moment of hesitation he picked it up and unlocked a drawer in the sturdy desk. The drawer was empty apart from one more file. One, he had read so often lately he could almost recite the damned thing. His fingers curled on the edge of the open drawer. He knew no answers would dawn on him from reading it again, it was tampered with, edited. Either that or the lies ran back too far, somehow he suspected that the latter could be the case. Before he gave into his temptation to pour through the dog eared pages, or to slam the drawer shut and call it a night, his office door opened again. A massive form lumbered into the room, one that was usually tense with good posture. Now, it was slumped slightly, exhaustion pulling the pride out of him. The bear closed the distance between them with his normal long strides.

"Good evening, or should I say… Good morning, Agent Grizzlikof." J. Gander smiled lightly.

"Gud mornink." He grunted. His dark eyes looking a bit more bloodshot then was to be expected.

"Oh my, you haven't slept since you started the investigation have you?" The bear's eyes looked away momentarily; it was enough of an answer for him. Hooter closed the drawer locking it tight, then leaned back into his chair. "What can I assist you with?"

"Dis investigation has no structure, Direcktor." Sighed the bear miserably.

"No structure, and no easy answers I assume?"

"So et vould seem. De widow killed her husband, dat much we know. Eet was pretty clear, but whoever killed her…"

"Knew their way around a murder scene?"

"Exactly, no fingerprints, not even a bit of dander. Direktor… in my opinion de murder was professional. A professional's work we've seen before."

Hooter blinked slowly. He thought the same thing. He just wanted his top Agent to confirm it.

"So, it was a F.O.W.L. job then…"

"So et vould seem."

"I wonder what the motive was…"

"Dat es where I cannot help you sir."

"And the professional?"

"Again, I am not certain, but et looks to be the work of their operative codenamed: Steelbeak."

"My, he was busy that night." Hooter commented to the air.

The two men stood in silence, the unpleasantness of their careers hanging around them like vultures. Hooter let out a small sigh and pulled himself back to the task at hand.

"Can I assume the late Mr. Flood's body is still accounted for?"

"Yes, he was very dead when he was buried." If Grizzlikof thought the question was ridiculous he certainly hid it well.

"Well at least we don't have to worry about him. It seems some people know how to stay dead." Hooter glanced at the files on his desk and stacked them neatly on top of each other. "I will arrange for you to have a few more seasoned field Agents to assist you in your investigation Grizzlikof."

"Thank you Direktor." The bear saluted him.

"But I have some new orders for you." Hooter saw the bear's giant shoulders sag slightly. "I want you to go home, get some rest, and report to work at least an hour late tomorrow. You can't deprive yourself of sleep now, who knows when it will be available next."

Grizzlikof's mouth curled in a sort of grimace, but he saluted again. Hooter knew he didn't like to take breaks when working on a case, especially when F.O.W.L. was involved. He watched the bear leave; it was more than a feeling that told him he'd need his aid soon. This quiet was nearing its end. A storm was brewing, the clouds just had to blow in for it to start. He put Elmo Sputterspark's file, along with his regular work load into the desk. To his arthritic bones… it felt like rain.

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All characters are © Disney apart for the ones I made up… they're mine obviously.

Ahh, sorry it took me so long to wrap this up. But I had a lot of work to do. To mention something I neglected to (though some picked it up anyway… you smarties. :D ) Michael Bell or uh… Quackerjack's identity is named after the voice actor that portrayed him in the cartoon. Also, Stones Sanitarium is in honor of the great Tad Stones who brought our beloved Masked Mallard to light. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed and I hope you enjoyed my little filler story while I try to beat my muse into submission as I wrestle with Trials of the Hero.


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